


Here in the golden haze of the late slant sun

by ambiguously



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alqualondë, Extra Treat, F/M, Family, Gen, Tol Eressëa, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguously/pseuds/ambiguously
Summary: Galadriel goes West.





	Here in the golden haze of the late slant sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



The journey takes many days. Urien races across the sky and falls in her appointed course, but Ulmo has given them calm seas. Galadriel watches the water and the others here on the last ship, taking delight in the growing glow on the faces of the two Ringbearers as the Island comes nearer each day. The seabirds wheel above them in graceful arcs, and one alights beside Elrond, preening as he lays a gentle hand on her snowy head.

Birds and ships are forever linked for Galadriel. She has never once seen a ship without the sight of the Swans behind her eyes, and the cries of the dying, and the far-off light of the boats burning. Time will pass, and the ages of the World will continue, and she will still remember as if these deeds happened an hour ago. When it came time to build the ships of Lórien she bade them be swans that she never forget the price of her passage to Middle Earth across the ice.

She is the last. The rest of her family line have returned to the Blessed Isle, by ship or else waiting in the halls of Mandos. Arwen alone remains, and she has surrendered her immortality in exchange for the Doom of Men. No matter how many ages of the World pass, they will not see her again. She will not return home.

The World is broken, but the ship's captain is true. At long last, land is spotted. Galadriel may not return to the land of her birth but the Isle is home enough. She will have the sight of Valinor. She will carry the memory of Lothlórien, and of Doriath, and all the lands where her long life has taken her, and she will plant the seeds of these memories into the rich loam beside the sea air, where they will never perish.

The ship draws near to the land. Other vessels grace the waters surrounding the docks. Many are of Círdan's work. Others, a few, she is certain are of Teleri build. The World will end and be renewed before the like of the Swans will be seen once more, but there are other ships.

The sun has set before they reach the dock, and this is right. She first set foot on the great lands at the first sunrise. It is fitting the stars should see the return of the daughter of the house of Finwë. 

On the pier, figures await them bearing lights. Galadriel pauses to squeeze Bilbo's hand, then Frodo's. "You are honored here, my friends." Together, the pair step down to the fine wooden planking of the dock, awed at the loveliness of the Eldar who greet them. She notices a similar awe on Elrond's face, but he was born in Middle Earth, and he has heard only stories of Turgon's home and never saw even the reflected glory that was Gondolin before the fall.

"Go on," she says, and then she sees his eyes are not on the splendor of the island, but rather they focus on one hooded figure who waits.

The years between them are but a breath in the lives of the elves. For Galadriel, now, it seems a lifetime as she watches the pair embrace.

Her turn is come, and she waits for the greetings of her fellows. A small, shriveled, childish place inside her heart expects the serene kindness to turn to rage against her. "Kin-slayer," they will call her. "Exile," they will say, and cast her back into the sea. Not for nothing has she delayed her return. Part of her has never believed the forgiveness of the Valar. Part of her tells her she deserves for her long-sundered kin to mock her, and revile her for her part in the long war, and to spit in her face as they speak terrible names, and place her into iron chains.

She knows this is folly, but that part of her will never forgive herself.

None of the welcoming elves approach her, and she wonders if her time has come.

Then Elrond presses his lips against Celebrían's forehead, and she steps forward. Years have not touched her face since she made her way here, though no matter the care of the Blessed Isle, she will always carry the fine lines of sorrow beside her eyes. She's still the loveliest thing Galadriel has ever seen. The Isle means little. Home is where her child is.

"Welcome home, Mother," she says, and takes her into an embrace that lasts an age.


End file.
